


hello, welcome home.

by xenia_che



Series: Shadowhunters Bingo [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, F/M, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Immortality, M/M, No Parabatai Bond, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Magnus Bane, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 01:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenia_che/pseuds/xenia_che
Summary: A story of a slowly blooming love, questionable immortality, stone-cold nephilims and one very stupid and stubborn warlock.My fill for the Shadowhunterbingo - #1 Free Space
Relationships: (implied) Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago, (mentioned) Magnus Bane/ Camille Belcourt, (mentioned) Magnus Bane/Others, Magnus Bane & Clary Fray, Magnus Bane & Isabelle Lightwood, Magnus Bane & Jace Wayland, Magnus Bane & Raphael Santiago, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: Shadowhunters Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544200
Comments: 56
Kudos: 240
Collections: Hunter's Moon Fic Recs





	hello, welcome home.

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! *dramatically enters the fandom with a fic this time*
> 
> So, this is my first fic for the fandom and for the Bingo too, so I'm very excited to share it with the world. Please, be gentle!  
It's unbeta'd but I tried my best to make it readable. 
> 
> I've taken a lot, A LOT of liberties with the canon. I hope you'll get it all while reading but if you get confused don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
> P.S. I'm always in desperate need of a beta, 'cause English isn't my first language
> 
> Special thank you, as always, goes to my muse lerratheone without whom I'd never be able to write a single sentance <3
> 
> There are aesthetics for this fic:  
[here](https://mysticalbarbariancreation.tumblr.com/post/188147580421/aesthetics-for-my-upcoming-fic-2-magnus-when-too)  
[and here](https://mysticalbarbariancreation.tumblr.com/post/188147479056/aesthetics-for-my-upcoming-fic-1-alec-a-perfect)

_Isn't it lovely, all alone?_  
_Heart made of glass, my mind of stone_  
_Tear me to pieces, skin to bone_  
_Hello, welcome home (c)_

** _i_** **.**

They meet for the first time when Magnus is four hundred and sixty two (not that he is counting) and Alec is, well, eighteen. A young Shadowhunter with ruffled dark hair and shiny hazel eyes. His lips are so red (he keeps biting them unconsciously, it seems), that Magnus can’t stop staring. 

“And who are _ you _?” mumbles Magnus, intrigued, a myriad of highly inappropriate thoughts rushing through his mind. 

The boy, the _ Lightwood _ boy just flips a dagger with his right hand and furrows his brow, catching Magnus’ gaze. His posture falters for a second, and Magnus, who isn’t looking _ for _ (hasn’t been for _ oh _ so long) can’t stop looking _ at_.

“This is my son.” Maryse’ voice is poised and shallow, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrow. “His name is Alec. He will be your contact from now on.”

“Pleasure.” Magnus quirks his lips in the fakest smile he can manage. His eyes still track the movement of Alec’s body, his thoughts so far away.

“It won’t be.” Maryse sighs and suddenly there is a glimpse of an actual person behind her perfect facade constructed of deadly glares and dead on make-up. “Trust me.”

“I don’t,” shrugs Magnus, but the comeback is still half hearted. The boy, the Lightwood, the _ Alec _comes closer, tilts his head acknowledging his mother’s presence, but stops too far away for Magnus to casually start a conversation. Not that he was going to.

“We’ll see you on Sunday,” says Maryse, and Magnus watches with quiet fascination how for a second she pauses, not sure whether to bow or stab him goodbye. Eventually, she does neither. Just purses her lips so hard that they’d turn white if not for her Ruby Woo lipstick and walks out of the club (it’s dark and empty, safe for a dead Circle member now lying on the spit stained floor). 

_ Alec _(and Magnus despises this name already) follows quietly, his gaze doesn’t linger on Magnus when he passes by. Magnus tells himself, it doesn’t sting.

It does.

It shouldn’t.

* * *

** _ii._ **

The deal with warlocks is quite tricky. All Downworlders have their perks (and their flaws), it’s a given. And for some reason, it’s all about _ love_. 

Some believe that it’s because they’re all something from a fairy tale (and though seelies do agree, vampires would protest non-stop). 

Some believe that it’s because the whole world it about _ love _, so why would Downworlders be an exception. 

Some just don’t care.

So yes, it’s all about love. Their perks and flaws.

Like werewolves, who fall in love just once in their lifetime. They find their _ mate _ and, well, _ mate _ with them until the day they die. Or pine after them, because this love thing doesn’t discriminate and werewolves can fall in love not only with other werewolves (or other Downworlders) but with mundanes too. And since bringing a mundane in the Shadow World is not an option, those unlucky bastards just whine a lot ( _ not _ figuratively speaking) and pretty much spend their lives being miserable and a tiny bit unstable. 

Ah, well. No one’s life is perfect.

Vampires have more flaws than perks when it comes to love. They live forever and their loved ones don’t. So they can fall in love over and over and over again, until it hurts too much for them to even think about being with someone. The only good thing is if they are _ truly _ in love, the blood of their chosen ones tastes faul to them, no matter how hungry they are. It is the Night’s way of protecting its Children from accidentally killing the only thing that helps them to keep their last human bits.

Seelies have this nonsense about _ True Love _ and how it operates on the whole other level (and nobody really knows what it means and nobody really cares).

And warlocks, well, it’s tricky, really. Anyone can fall in love with a warlock and any warlock can fall in love with anyone. And if this _ anyone _ is mortal, they would live forever with their warlock lovers, being happy and, apparently, throwing up rainbows. But it lasts exactly until the day they fall _ out _ of love with a warlock. And then, of course, they would grow old and die. And the thing with mortals is – they _ always _ fall out of love. They are not meant to live forever and therefore, they are not meant to love forever. Their lives are fleeting and their feelings are too. Some need a year, some need a decade, some need a century – but eventually, they all move on. It’s in their nature. 

Magnus hates it. He would take the blood thingie any day.

* * *

** _iii. _ **

They do meet on Sunday. It is a lovely Sunday, Magnus has to admit. The sun is shining brightly, the sky is incredibly blue and the wind smells of fallen leaves and the cold soil. 

The cemetery is probably not the most mundane place to meet someone for a business talk but Magnus likes the quiet and nephilims are just weird like that, so cemetery it is. 

It’s Catholic, right next to an abandoned church. Magnus suspects that the church is not exactly what it seems, but it’s rude to start a partnership with blunt questions. Besides, he doesn’t mind a long midday stroll among old tombstones. He might even recognise some names on them.

“You’re late,” is the first thing _ Alec _ says, and Magnus chokes on air. He sounds _ gorgeous _, and Magnus’ heart jumps in his chest. 

“Well, not everyone can just put on random items of clothes and act like it’s fine,” shrugs Magnus, his smile fake and a bit flirtatious. He _ is _ a warlock, he had _ centuries _ to practise each and every expression on his face. No matter how lovely, young boys (or girls) don’t throw him off course. 

“So, you’re saying, your outfit is _ intentional _?” There is an actual intonation beneath the usual layer of poise and expressionlessness that is a signature Shadowhunter speech. Magnus almost feels intrigued by it.

He shouldn’t.

“You, nephilims, know nothing about fashion and, well, the real world,” grins Magnus. His blue slacks are tight, his red jacket is shiny and his rings are spotless. He looks perfect and no angle could convince him otherwise. “Though, I must admit, black suits you, _ Alexander_.”

A heartbeat.

“It’s Alec.” 

There is another intonation, the one Magnus can’t read (because his experience is limited to nephilims being basically robots with just one purpose and one ability only, so normally reading them is as easy and as exciting as reading a manual for a vacuum cleaner).

“I don’t like it.” Magnus shrugs again and waves his hand dismissively. “It sounds boring and at the same time, not grown up enough. We’re going to _ work _ together, not bond over a beer pong.”

“What is a beer pong?” asks Alec, a mix of curiosity and lack of understanding in his voice. He looks _ alive _ for the whole second, his hazel eyes so bright and his lips parted. Magnus’ heart stutters at the sight. 

“Something Angels don’t approve of.” Magnus’ grin is as dismissive and arrogant as he can master. “And baby nephilims should stay away from.”

It’s sad to see the hazel brightness dim. 

It shouldn’t be.

* * *

** _iv. _ **

How do you get used to seeing your lovers fall out of love? 

How do you get used to the pain that blooms in your chest each time you see the first gray hair or skin straying into wrinkles? 

How do you live with the memory of their haunted eyes when they’ve realized their _ forever _ is over? 

How do you live with knowing that your _ forever _ might never end just like your loneliness?

* * *

**_v_**.

Magnus had four big love stories that ended badly. 

(He shouldn’t had to have even one.)

The second one was Imasu. Handsome and strong. With charming eyes and even more charming smile. A musician. They’ve spent two decades together – young, madly in love and always a little drunk on sangria and each other. 

It’s all a haze now in Magnus memory. 

He does remember that it ended with tears and accusations. Imasu did write the most beautiful song in Magnus’ name. Though in the end he called it _ The Demon _ and burned the music books in the fireplace of their last hotel suit. 

Magnus still sometimes hears random passages of crying violin in the quiet of the night.

* * *

** _vi. _ **

They meet again. Of course they meet again – Magnus had to go and get himself in danger so _ Maryse Lightwood _ and her _ boy _ could save his life and hold a life debt over him. 

How typically untypical of him 

And now Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Broocklyn is playing genie to Shadowhunter’s Alladin.

He doesn’t exactly hate it.

He should.

Today they – well, Alexander, – invited him in. The old church looks thoroughly abandoned, though if Magnus narrows his eyes just right, he can see the glimmer of yellow light pouring through cracks. And even painfully religious stained-glass windows instead of empty dark holes. 

The wards on the New York Institut are running low. And Magnus is here to restore them. He sighs, shaking his head. Those nephilims always find a way to not pay for something crazy important and complicated. And, well, expansive. Under different circumstances Magnus wouldn’ve charged the double rate just out of spite. 

He doesn’t have the luxury to do so now and it annoys him to no end.

Then Alec takes his hand, and Magnus’ traitorous heart does a double take, making him suck in a breath. 

“When you come here for the first time, you need someone to _ show _ you,” says Alec, his voice normal and his face blank. His hand though is burning hot on Magnus skin, and if he was younger, Magnus would’ve suspected foul play on nephilims’ end. He doesn’t now.

He should.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been in the Institute before,” says Alec when they step through narrow doors, still holding hands. 

“I’ve never had a reason to,” shrugs Magnus. He does that a lot when Alec is around. “Or a guide.”

He could swear that he hears a chuckle, but then they’re through and there is Maryse Lightwood waiting for them in the foyer. Alec doesn’t drop his hand like Magnus would’ve expected. He doesn’t linger either. Just relaxes his fingers and moves forward, his hand now resting on the blade on his hip. 

The perfect soldier.

Magnus suddenly feels cold.

* * *

**_vii_**.

Then there was Camille. His first and third most devastating break up. Magnus still doesn’t know exactly how he feels about her.

There is this knot of different emotions that her name ignites in his chest – happiness and devastation, pain and awe. And always, always sting of breathtaking regret.

She was a vampire when they’ve met the first time. So beautiful and sweet with her long hair and oh so innocent smile. Magnus didn’t trust it for a moment.

Camille was immortal and they could’ve had a life. A long _ forever _ just for the two of them. 

They didn’t.

He wanted to stare into her eyes counting the stars and galaxies he saw in them. She wanted to fuck the milkman. This romance was doomed from the beginning.

* * *

**_viii_**.

The next time they meet it’s almost Christmas. The loveliest time to be in New York, if you’re not an old bored warlock or an unexpectedly untiresome nephilim with a weird sleeping schedule.

Magnus has just finished redecorating his loft (the third and final time today) when there is a knock at his door.

The thing is – _ nobody _ really knocks at his door. 

(It’s complicated, the way his clients get to him, but really, no _ knocking _ is ever involved.)

But well, Magnus is bored and despite getting the ornaments _ just _ right this time, he’s already feeling the itching need to change things _ again _, so he actually stands up from his new plush green armchair and goes to open the door.

Alec looks devastatingly beautiful with his nose red from the cold and his hair sprinkled with unmelted snowflakes. But he is not alone this time, this damn nephilim. There is a golden haired boy with unmatched eyes standing right next to Alec, his chin tilted up and his jaw clenched.

“My my, Alexander, how thoughtful of you!” There is this sudden need to be playful and maybe a bit exaggerated, and Magnus can’t really find a reason not to. “I’ve started to believe that people had actually forgotten about children sacrifices to warlocks on Yule Eve!”

There’s something in those hazel eyes, a flicker, a glitch that looks a lot like amusement and maybe even affection. But then Alec moves, the light changes and no, Magnus’ mind is just playing ticks.

It makes Magnus sigh.

“This is Jace,” says Alec, looking straight at Magnus, his head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. His voice neutral. “I need you to erase his memories.”

“What is it with you, nephilims, and mingling with children memories?” Magnus furrows his brow and stops himself at the last moment from folding his arms at his chest. 

It’s not that he has some kind of rules against _ mingling with children memories _, he just disapproves. After all, it is rather sad to forget things one might want to remember.

Alec, ever the perfect soldier, says nothing.

“What, he too has seen a demon he wasn’t supposed to see?” His silence unnerves Magnus somehow, makes him want to babble and wave his hands more than usual.

“Yes.” Alec surprises him with an answer. Magnus wasn’t expecting any. “His father.”

A harsh inhale. Long exhale. Silence.

“Do come in then.” Magnus opens the door wider and steps aside. The sudden need to be _ still _ and _ quiet _ is almost overwhelming.

“I’m not scared.” Jace stops before Magnus and jerks his head up. Despite his narrow eyes and arrogant grin, Magnus can see his lower lip trembling.

“Of course you’re not, cupcake.” Magnus isn’t sure he can breath properly. Especially when he sees the way boy’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears.

When Magnus looks up, Alec is standing a tad bit too close. And breathes a tad bit too heavy. He looks so _ human _ and so _ young _, that Magnus wonders for a moment if it is all a dream.

Nephilims were made for sympathy, but they’ve shredded this _ useless _ skill too many centuries ago.

His mind is just playing tricks even if the boys in front of him are very real.

* * *

** _ix._ **

The second time he met Camille, she was a human. Magnus still doesn’t know how that was possible exactly, since there were (_ are _) no mentions of a vampire turning into a human. But there she was – still breathtaking as ever, her eyes shining with mischief and something so blatantly sexual, that Magnus lost his breath for five whole seconds.

It didn’t last, of course. 

No one can fake love in a cosmical sense even if their survival depends on it. 

Camille wanted to be forever young and beautiful. Magnus wanted to wake up next to her every morning.

And yes, the issue with the milkman still wasn’t fully resolved even if Magnus for the first time in his life decided to think ahead and cancelled milk delivery to his then residence in London.

She fucked the postman.

(Camille had been a vampire for over six hundred years, she wasn’t really good at controlling her basic impulses, which were mostly to feed and to sleep with every pretty thing she laid her eyes on.)

Magnus, ever the romantic, stayed by her side until the day she died. He even held her hand and attended her funeral.

That weren’t his finest moments. Nor was the next decade after that.

* * *

** _x. _ **

Magnus sees Alec again on an early April morning. The weather is gorgeous – the sun is shining and the cemetary around the Institute glimmers in its light. The wind smells of spring and freshly baked bagels. And Magnus could swear he hears a faint sound of Bach coming from one of the apartment buildings on the other side of the cemetery.

All in all, it’s a beautiful morning.

And then Magnus enters the Institute through those ridiculously narrow wooden doors. 

There is a girl there to meet him, which is in itself a weird act on nephilims’ behalf (they never actually show their young ones to warlocks unless it’s absolutely necessary). The girl is short with long black hair and scared dark eyes. Her fingers fiddle with a silver and gold bracelet on her left arm. When Magnus approaches, she tilts her head in such a familiar manner, that there is no more doubts left – she is a Lightwood.

“Magnus Bane?” she says and her voice trembles. Magnus nods, his lips curving into a smile. He does favor children even with angelic blood in their veins.

(Of course, he knows that just too soon they will lose their ability to see the world in different colours and forms, and they will turn in these machines with no heart and too much weapons to play with. He is _ kind _ , not _ stupid_.)

“My brother—” The girl sniffs, then bits her lower lip and huffs a breath, her eyes burning with a Heaven fire. “You _ have _ to help him.”

And that’s how Magnus’ beautiful April morning turns into something dark and sad and unexpectedly painful with Alec lying in the infirmary and Magnus being the only person who can help him. Hypothetically. 

Magnus has always been more into applied approach.

(The thing is – even lying there, pale and covered in dry blood, Alexa— _ Alec _ is beautiful and _ human _ , despite black runes covering his skin. And Magnus heart stutters in his chest when he takes Alec’s hand and it’s so, so _ cold _ , when it’s supposed to be _ burning hot_. 

Magnus hates it. 

He shouldn’t.)

Magnus holds Alec’s hand and shares his magic, raw and unapologetic, because he’s tried everything he knows, but it _ doesn’t work_. And he can’t just let this _ damn nephilim _die, and yes, he swears never to call him that if Alec opens his eyes.

Alec does.

“You damn nephilim!” is the first thing Magnus says to him, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. 

He can swear, Alec actually chuckles at that.

“Your debt is paid,” says Maryse Lightwood, her eyes glued to her sleeping son’s face. “You owe us nothing.”

“I never did.” It doesn’t matter how tired Magnus is, he can always master a flirtatious comeback to a nephilim aplomb.

He does have to walk twelve blocks until he gains enough power to send a fire message to Catarina so she could portal him home.

It’s worth it.

* * *

** _xi. _ **

Magnus doesn’t see Alexa— _ Alec _ for another eight years.

* * *

_ **xii**. _

Her name was Etta – his fourth and final unhappy ending. Happily never after. _ Whatever_.

She was everything Camille wasn’t: honest, open, loving and a bit naive. Magnus fell in love with her absolutely magical voice and only then in her gorgeous smile. They’ve danced all night the first time they met. And every night after that.

It was right before World War II, when everything was still simple and vibrant and yes, naive. But even without knowing for sure, people could already feel something burning in the air. 

Magnus has lived through so many wars, that he could actually taste the blood and ashes on his tongue. But then there was Etta, and suddenly the whole world didn’t really matter anymore.

It lasted fifteen years. They have been young and beautiful and mostly carefree, though Etta’s heart did break when her brother died in Germany. And the second time when she had to say goodbye to her old mother to avoid explaining why she hadn’t aged a day. 

Magnus’ heart broke when she came back from the doctor’s saying that she needed reading glasses. It’s funny how such a mundane thing can shatter someone’s world. 

He let her go. 

The sun still rose the next morning. And the Earth hasn’t stopped moving. 

Magnus hated it.

Still does sometimes.

* * *

_**xiii**. _

Magnus spends those eight years being incredibly busy. Too busy to think about nephilims as a whole and one nephilim in particular. Most of the time.

He parties, a lot. Buys a yacht. Buys a club. Gets himself a cliche looking heart shaped tattoo that slowly vanishes from his skin in the next two days. Adopts a cat. Babysitts Elias. Babysitts Raphael. Babysitts Ragnor. Dances with Dot. Drinks plasma in a desperate attempt to finally get _ actually _ drunk and spends the next eighteen hours on Catarina’s couch with the worst case of _ warlock hiccups _ (the bad one, when everytime he hiccups, his magic spirals out of control and breaks something with a rainbow coloured flames). Tries to convince Raphael use _ encanto _ on Catarina to make her forget that day. Spends too much money on _ Dolce and Gabbana _ shoes. Grows and (fortunately) shaves a beard.

But then there is a nephilim shaped red haired girl on his doorstep being unable to decide what she wants to do more – to beg or to threaten. Magnus knows her, of course he does – her mother took up enough of his time to leave a mark. 

“I need my memories back, please!” The girl, _ Clary _, grabs his hand and clenches her fingers so tightly it actually hurts. “It’s the only way to find my mum.”

It’s not the pleading tone of her voice or the trembling of her lips or the glint of fire in her eyes that makes Magnus nod against all odds and say “Of course, Biscuit, I’ll do my best to help.” 

(Magnus does have a soft spot for children but she isn’t a child anymore and grownup nephilims, even with a heavy case of selective amnesia, aren’t something Magnus wants to be involved with.)

With Clary comes a boy, a blond boy with mismatched eyes, blonde hair and a defiant smirk on his pale face. 

Magnus remembers this boy, whom he has seen just once, even better than Clary, whose memories he’s been erasing once a year for twelve years now.

It’s ridiculous.

He still moves aside letting them in.

* * *

_ **xiv**. _

The thing is – Magnus has been thinking about that _ damn nephilim _ more than he cares to admit. And not because of his looks or his near human behavior or his warm hands. 

(Though, Magnus does like beautiful things and beautiful people, sue him.)

Magnus hasn’t seen him for eight years, but he does have ears and people (well, Downworlders) _ talk_.

About _ the Lightwood boy _, who stopped an attack on a warlock child. Who protected a vampire from being staked for something they didn’t do. Who rolled his eyes at Seelie Queen and came back from her realm alive. 

_ The Lightwood boy _, who took control over the New York Institut from his parents and whose first official decree was to form a Cabinet of Shadowhunters and Downworlders so they could work together, mend their relationship and prevent injustice. 

(Eight years mean nothing in warlock’s life but it’s a long time for nephilims. For many Shadowhunters it’s a third of their lifespan.)

That’s actually how Magnus meets Alec again – a white envelope appears on his desk with a letter inside covered in black and gold ink and well composed sentences, inviting him to a Cabinet meeting tomorrow at dusk.

(Usually, Catarina is the one doing the talking, but she is a nurse by day and often by night, and really, Magnus is surprised it took her so long to shuffle off the responsibility onto him.)

And so Magnus puts on his favorite green suit (it sparkles and glitters and it’s _ so lovely _), fixes his hair, rolls his shoulders and steps through the portal that leads him to the stairs right in front of the old church. 

(He’s hit with the strongest case of deja vu, because it’s April and there is Bach playing at the distance. And even the setting sun and frosty wind can’t help shake off the odd numbness in his fingers.)

When he steps through the wooden doors (funny, he’s forgotten how narrow they are), he is greeted by Raphael. It’s a surprise (a nice one, for a change). Raphael looks good – composed yet unthreatening. It’s a new look on him, especially this glint in his eyes that somehow doesn’t instantly remind Magnus of bloodsheds, slippery flesh and choked cries. 

“The changes are coming, my friend,” says Raphael quietly, and Magnus hears dimmed hope and excitement in his husky voice. 

(Magnus doesn’t say that changes are already here and Raphael’s unusual demeanour is evidence enough, because all vampires are drama queens by nature, with their inability to breathe and cry, and storm off into an early morning whenever they feel like it.)

“Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you’d show.” And Magnus’ breath actually catches when he hears this voice behind him. 

“I was curious.” Magnus huffs, turning abruptly. He glimmers and shimmers, flirtatious smile glued to his lips. 

It falls the moment he sets his eyes on Alec.

Eight years mean nothing to Magnus, but to many Shadowhunters it’s a third of their lifespan.

Aren’t they supposed to grow up?

* * *

_**xv**. _

The Cabinet meeting is an elegant affair, but also somewhat tense and hushed, because even Magnus has heard _ things _(about Valentine and Mortal Cup and Clave’s suspicion growing stronger). But everyone, even the seelie boy, are being civil, and for a moment Magnus almost feels out of place with his full armor of glitter and eyeliner on. 

It passes quickly.

Afterwards, when the meeting is adjourned, Magnus lingers. He can’t explain it, wouldn’t even try, but there is something in Alec’s eyes that makes him stay in the hall, closing Raphael’s portal with a wave of his hand.

The wooden panel, that Magnus leans on, is cool and polished. It’s the Institute, so even walls here are composed and dull, and have the eternal cold seep through them.

(Nephilims are meant to fight demons, and what is the better way to dim Hell flames then bone freezing coolness of Heaven indifference?)

“I must say, I’m impressed,” smiles Magnus, glancing at Alec, who stands before him, shoulders straight and his hands clasped behind his back. It feels weird, how the smile tugs on the corner of his mouth – it’s been a while since Magnus’ had something that honest appearing on his face.

“It's a work in progress,” shrugs Alec, his eyes finally leaving the spot where Raphael’s portal was a moment ago and settling on Magnus. It feels even weirder than Magnus’ smile.

It shouldn’t.

“Well, _ Alexander _ —” the name tastes sweet on Magnus’ tongue, like pomegranate and overripe cherry. It makes him _ breathe _ and _ feel _ , and _ see _ endless possibilities of _ what ifs _ and _ what might’ve beens_. It’s unnatural and intoxicating, and Magnus could swear he feels glitter swirling in his lounges and dancing in his veins.

“Are you alright?” He missed the moment Alec took the crucial step, now standing way too close, his breath tickling Magnus’ skin, his hand on Magnus’ elbow burning through layers and layers of clothes.

“I’m not yet sure.” Magnus manages to get out, his heart beating way too fast for his liking. 

(He is over four hundred years old. He’s had his share of heartbreak. _ Never again _, he swore and he intends to keep this vow, no matter the cost.)

“I’d better go. Clients to see, money to make.” The chuckle that escapes his lips is faker than Lorenzo’s cheek bones, but it barely matters at the moment. Anything that would help him get away from _ that nephilim _ is good enough.

Alec nods and takes a step back, his face again unreadable. Magnus misses his presence in his personal space immediately.

“Do you want me to call someone to create a portal for you?” 

The actual concern in _ nephilim _’s voice makes Magnus shiver. 

“I’m quite capable of dealing with a portal myself, _ Alexander_.” Magnus straightens his back and flips his hand, creating a purple void that will take him far, far away from this odd moment.

Before he steps through, Magnus can’t help sneaking a glance behind at Alec, who looks like a statue with his face blank and his skin marble. Yet there is something burning in his eyes, not exactly with the promise, but with intent. It almost makes Magnus lose control over his glamour. 

It’s ridiculous.

(Nephilims _ are _ made of stone and cement, and grafting wax. And bloodlust, and prejudice. They’re _ machines _ with no free will and no regrets. They’re lifeless creatures who see the world in black and black. _ Everyone _knows that.)

Instead of his loft, the portal brings Magnus into hot Havana night with heavy air and liquid lust in a form of tequila running free in everyone’s veins.

Magnus should hate it.

He doesn’t.

* * *

** _xvi. _ **

Seventy years ago, right in the middle of his romance with Etta, Magnus met a boy. It was a cold dark night, Magnus was drunk on the Victory still so fresh in the air, Etta’s voice and cheap bourbon (he could’ve done better, but he was distracted by Etta’s lips to magic something more sophisticated). They’ve just finished dancing their feet off, and Magnus left Etta sleeping on a cozy divan in her sister’s apartment, deciding to take a walk and breathe a little before going to sleep. He’s been walking for a while, his magic even drunker than himself singing on the tips of his fingers, when he heard it. 

A cry. 

(Animalistic sound, so full of pain and grief. Like someone’s world has just shattered to pieces with no possibility to ever be rebuilt again.)

For years Magnus couldn't have explained what made him run_ towards _ the sound and not _ away _ from it.

There was a boy. Latino boy with ruffled hair, dirt covered hands and blood smeared face. A body of a blond girl lying at his feet. 

His name was Raphael and he was killed and turned into a vampire against his will.

So unnaturally, Magnus took him in. Gave him a home, a hug and a makeover, presenting him with rows and rows of expensive jackets and well-tailored suits. Took him to London, to Saigon, to Rome and Barcelona. Taught him to make paella and best bloody mohito with a straw and mint and ice. Helped him to learn and to control his urges, to never kill yet stay alive.

And fought for him when _ nephilims _ came knocking on their door, demanding Raphael’s head. 

(The head of the boy who was brutally _ murdered _ once, who lost his _ home _ , his _ family _ , his _ baby sister_. Who had to fight _ himself _ to stay alive. Who still _ whimpered _ sometimes into his pillow at early morning hours when he thought nobody could hear him. 

They didn’t care, those Shadowhunters. 

They never do.)

But Magnus did. He fought, not just with magic but with words. He cursed, accused and threatened. He whirled his hands and broke his plates (and their noses), and eventually, they surrendered.

(That’s why Magnus puts up with Raphael occasional dramatics – he does suspect that he might’ve been an exemplar of such behavior for once a very impressionable boy now turned predator.)

But he hasn’t forgotten the rune covered men crashing through his door. The glimmer of seraph blades. Their cruel laughs and self-assured posture.

Nobody knows how to hold a grudge better than a four hundred years old warlock.

* * *

**_xvii_**.

One of Magnus biggest secrets is that he doesn’t really do planning. Things just happen to him, and he likes the life this way.

(He’s seen empires rise and fall. He’s seen the world changing so fast in such a short period of time, that planning his day, his week, his month seems utterly ridiculous.)

But unfortunately, it means that things that happen to him are mostly highly unexpected. And not nessecerally in a good way.

Like a group of Shadowhunters at his door at seven in the morning, when Magnus had barely had time to portal away the group of his very drunk and very Downworlder friends and strip his clothes to take a quick shower before going to sleep.

They _ knock _, and that’s the only reason Magnus opens the door in the first place.

(He should’ve known better by now.)

“How _ did _ you get this address?” Magnus mutters, glaring at his uninvited guests, and folds his hands at his bare chest. 

“Magnus, please, we need you help!” Clray (_ of course _ , Clary is among them) says in a stern voice, and really, someone should teach this girl to ask _ before _ trying to bully people into submission. 

“When do you not, Biscuit?” sighs Magnus, leaning on the door post. “My services do cost money, you know that, right? And not only money, sometimes favours or shiny things. So, unless you’re willing to pay the standard fee…”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Alec steps forward from the side, and Magnus suddenly feels too exposed with his chest bare and his skin-tight black slacks hanging low on his hips. 

(Really, nobody should be forced to deal with Shadowhunters at seven in the morning.)

“How about we tell you why we’re here and then you decide whether you want to charge us or not?” Alec’s voice is even and there is no demand or panic hiding behind his words. But for some reason, it’s his lack of concern and not Clary’s agitation that makes Magnus move to the side so the Shadowhunters could come inside his loft.

(And maybe, it’s not just his voice but the dark circles under Alec’s eyes. His bitten lips and slightly slumped shoulders. Magnus has known him for a while and he’s learnt to read those little things on Alec’s perfectly blank face.

He doesn’t even know he does that.)

“It’s about the Circle?” Magnus asks over his shoulder, when the last Shadowhunter enters the loft. 

“It’s about the Circle,” sighs Alec, suddenly standing too close, his breath hot on Magnus’ bare shoulder. It makes Magnus almost jump out of his skin and shiver at the same time.

“Are you sure you have angel blood and not feline, Alexander?” mumbles Magnus, turning abruptly and finding himself standing in Alec’s personal space, their chests almost touching.

“Silence rune,” chuckles, actually _ chuckles _ Alec, and Magnus is fascinated by the sound.

“Oi, loverboy! We’re pressed for time here,” the blond Shadowhunter, Jace, snaps impatiently, and Alec moves away, rolling his eyes. 

For a moment Magnus remembers the first time he saw Jace – scared, defiant, hurt. And so, so _ small. _

Ten years old boys would never admit being any of those things, but Magnus suddenly remembers him so clearly, as if he is standing right before him. And Alec’s hand lying on Jace’s tiny shoulder. It feels weird, but Magnus doesn’t have time to dwell, because Clary does know how to be demanding even if she doesn’t have any right to be.

(And if Alec looks too exhausted to be standing, it doesn’t motivate Magnus to move things along quicker at the slightest.)

(Seriously, not one bit.)

* * *

_ **xviii**. _

Eventually, they do fight. No each other, though – the demons. A horde of demons. Hordes of hordes of demons. 

(Well, maybe not _ that _ much, but still, the fight leaves Magnus breathless and drained, and Alec’s fingertips are cracked from stretching the bow too much. Isabelle is covered in tiny cuts that, judging by her fidgeting and squirming, sting and itch like hell. Clary’s hands are shaking and her face is pale and bruised in unexpected places. Jace is still panting, trying to draw _ iratze _ with his left hand over the gash in his right side.)

All in all, they fight together and win together, and it’s something Magnus has never done before (and he’s done _ everything _ before, well, almost), so now he is a bit weirded out and high on triumph at the same time.

It makes his skin tingle.

“We should go back to the Institute,” says Alec eventually, when everyone can breathe properly again. “Now we know for sure that Valentine is back and building an army.”

“Oh, and we _ didn’t _ know that before?” flares up Clary, her voice vibrant with a hint of a growl and pain. “He has my mum! I told you, I _ saw _ him in my visions!”

“And _ I _ told you, that if you’re not trained properly, you visions can’t be trusted,” shrugs Alec, adjusting his quiver with a habitual gesture. “And _ you _are definitely not trained.”

He says it evenly, without heat or accusation, and Magnus is fascinated, how someone so fast and deadly not just five minutes ago, can be so impassive now.

“So, what does it mean? You didn’t believe me?” Clary narrows her eyes, and Magnus is glad she isn’t a warlock, otherwise they all wouldn't have survived her wrath tonight. “You don’t trust me, is that it? Huh?”

“Oh, no, Clary, _ of course _ we trust you!” jumps up Jace, his blood covered hands catch Clary’s trembling ones, his face sincere and his eyes big. “What Alec is trying to say – your visions could’ve been manipulated because you don’t know how to close your mind from that sort of intrusion.” 

Alec rolls his eyes when Jace glares at him, and Magnus suddenly understands how he survived doing the same in the Seelie Court – the Queen was just too smitten by that gesture to be mad at him properly.

The Institute is hectic and cold, and Magnus can’t explain why he follows those Shadowhunters instead of going back to his loft to clean up properly and drink all martini he can find (and maybe get some more.)

But he is here, in a big impersonal room with high ceilings and disturbingly religious stained-glass windows, that somehow look worse from the inside than outside. The Shadowhunters, the ones who dragged him in (and that’s the story he chooses to stick to), are hovering over a table with intricate holograms and shiny buttons. 

It must be angel blood in their veins, because they all look rather lovely. Lovelier than any average mundane (or even not so average). But that’s not what catches Magnus’ eye most. It’s Jace’s angry glares and raised voice. It’s Isabelle’s brows pinched in obvious concern. It’s Clary’s misted over eyes. And Alec’s stoic face that betrays nothing. 

When their heated (three fourths) discussion is over, Magnus is barely conscious. He would never confess it even to Catarina, but he managed to doze off in the most uncomfortable excuse of a chair at his enemy’s territory. (nephilims aren’t exactly _ enemies _ but they’re definitely not friends.)

“This time I do need to call someone to create a portal for you.” And for a second Magnus can swear that Alec’s voice is the best thing to wake up to. 

It passes the moment he opens his eyes.

(Because no, scratch that, Alec’s face is the best thing to wake up to. 

Not that it matters.)

“I’m fine, Alexander.” Magnus hums and can barely contain ungraceful yawn. “I’ll walk a little and then portal home. It’s no big deal.”

Alec raises a brow, and really, Magnus has seen too much emotions from nephilims for one day.

“If you insist.” Alec nods eventually and then adds after a brief pause. “I’ll show you out.”

“You don’t really believe I’d enter _ the Institute _ without knowing beforehand how to get out of here?” Magnus rolls his eyes, but still feels too tired to make it look as light and playful as it should. “I know where the exit is.” 

“I have no doubts.” If it was someone else, Magnus would say he sounded amused, but nephilims don’t really do, well, _ amused_. “This way, please.”

Magnus shakes his head, feeling a small yet sincere smile tugging on his lips. He sighs and follows Alec to soon fall into step with him.

The Institute is surprisingly empty, though it must be well past noon. Magnus doesn’t ask where everyone is – parlty, because he is too tired to care, and parly, because he doesn’t want to be suspected of anything indecent like espionage or vulgar curiosity.

They walk for a while, but the Institute is no place for a Downworlder, so rather soon the walls and narrow passages with wooden panels start to make Magnus feel claustrophobic. And since his tired brain apparently believes that talking is the best way to not freak out, Magnus asks the first question that comes to his mind.

“You don’t really like Biscuit, do you?” His voice is too loud in an empty stone carved hall.

“I get a feeling, you’re not asking about baked goods,” conversely, Alec is as quiet as usual.

“Clary.” Magnus chuckles, giving Alec surreptitious look.

“She is very tiring,” shrugs Alec as if it’s something obvious. “Clary is a child who believes herself to be a grown up, when in fact, she’s been sheltered her whole life. She cares about stupid things and misses the important ones. She is untrained and therefore dangerous. Max has more sense than Clary, and he is _ nine_.”

Magnus raises a brow, not expecting such a detailed answer. Alec catches his questioning gaze and hums quietly, still looking calm and unaffected, despite his obvious distaste.

“True, she’s lived as a mundane, not a Shadowhunter,” says Magnus after a pause. “She does need to train and practice if she wants to be a part of the Shadow World. But she is what, eighteen? Almost your age.”

“Hardly,” hums Alec, and something in his voice makes Magnus frown. But before he can place the feeling, they go through another passage that leads them exactly to the main entrance of the Institute.

“Thank you for your help, Magnus.” Alec bows his head lightly and leaves without pausing or making sure that Magnus actually exits the building.

How unprofessional of him.

Only when Magnus is back at his loft lying in his giant bathtub with a martini glass, he realizes, that it was the first time a nephilim actually _ thanked _ him for, well, anything.

Huh.

* * *

_ **xix**. _

The truth is, Magnus’ disappointment in nephilims started a long time ago, before Raphael or the Uprising.

(Though Valentine alone is a damn good reason to scratch Shadowhunters out of his Christmas list and slam the door in their faces whenever they show up at his doorstep.)

There were many different things that nephilims did, and not all of them are about mass destruction or blind following of stupid laws or the overall cockiness that is as much of a Shadowhunter thing as their runes and seraph blades. 

(And the first sin of Angels in Magnus’ book is that _ all _ of them are Shadowhunters, no matter what they want or what they dream of. Yes, not all of them are soldiers, because somebody do need to prepare food and clothing, and help maintain the resemblance of a normal life in Idris as much as in Institutes all around the world. No race, that doesn’t take slaves, can survive on being just made of warriors, and nephilims could never deal with slaves – they get read of broken things, not collect them.

But Magnus knows for sure that not all those boys and girls want to cover their bodies in runes, learn to kill and prepare to die young when they grow up. Some could be brilliant musicians. Others could be chefs or builders or even accountants. But they’re given same blades and steles as everyone else. And they go and die for something they don’t even fully believe in. 

It’s sad.

It’s unfair.

It’s the reason why nephilims keep their children in Idris until they’ve grown enough to want to die for the greater good and not run away with some mundane and become a circus clown.)

So yes, Magnus could write a Harry Potter long book series about everything he despises about Shadowhunters. He would start with _ the first sin of Angels _and then rant for hundreds of pages about betrayal, broken promises, stolen goods, wrecked houses, unfounded accusations and that absolutely devastating need to wear all black for no good (enough) reason. 

(Of course, there were the nice ones. That Branwall kid, who helped Magnus create modern portals, because he liked to read and think, and dream. Because he wanted to travel and see the world, and not be stuck in Idris with his highly irritating parents and three younger sisters. Magnus loved working with him and even considered him a friend at some point.

Well, look where it all got the poor fellow in the end.)

But that book series _ What Shadowhunters Ever Did Wrong _ would definitely have a prologue. The one that wouldn’t tell about big things like massacres or ill-founded superiority. It would be short and dry, like Magnus’ favorite martini cocktail. And Magnus would never ever show it to anyone in the world.

(Fun fact: the first boy Magnus kissed was a Shadowhunter. 

The first _ girl _ was Elizabeth, governor's daughter, red haired and otherworldly. He spent three days diving for pearls to make a perfect necklace for her. She kissed him for it, and it was the happiest moment of his second decade.

But the boy, the boy was a nephilim with big blue eyes and raven hair. He was so tall and lean, and Magnus was so smitten the moment their eyes met. Magus was playing the pirate at the time and the boy was on a mission to find a demon who was destroying fishing boats along the coast. They’ve shaken hands and exchanged names, they’ve drunk too much rom and slept under the stars. And eventually Magnus felt confident enough to close the gap between their lips and put his hands on boys hips.

The kiss was perfect.

And when it ended, Magnus didn’t realise that he was so excited that the glamour he kept over his eyes slipped away. 

The boy stabbed him in his right side the moment he saw Magnus’ warlock mark. Luckily, with a broken bottle head and not a seraph blade..

He didn’t even miss a beat.)

These days everyone knows that nephilims are no good. And if Magnus was one of the main reasons Downworlders started to believe so, well, he would never apologize for it. Besides, Shadowhunters has done everything in their power to support this claim.

Well, maybe not _ all _all of them.

* * *

_ **xx**. _

Nephilims do have a terrible timing (something that's been proven on more than one occasion), so _ of course _ Clary and Isabelle storm into Magnus’ loft right when he is with a client. A very jumpy and maybe kind of rogue client who pales the moment he spots runes on Magnus’ new guests and immediately evaporates in a cloud of nasty smelling green gas, leaving Magnus with no payment for his rather intricate work. 

“Did you _ have _to do that, Biscuit?” sighs Magnus, feeling mostly tired instead of furious. 

It’s been a long day. A long week. A long decade. He is _ so over _ Shadowhunters and their broken sense of time, he can’t even—

“Please, Magnus, Alec needs you help!” patters Isabelle, and Magnus suddenly sees that little girl with burning eyes and trembling lips from oh so many years ago. 

(This is definitely one of his _ least _ favorite flashbacks, and he’s lived through both World Wars and the popularity of codpieces.)

“What that _ damn nephilim _got himself into this time?” (Ah well, old habits die hard, it seems.)

“We need to hurry.” Clary grabs Magnus arm and swirls her hand is a stupid gesture that, aparently, represents him magicing a portal.

Magnus rolls his eyes but does what she asks him to.

(He is yet again reminded that angel blood might be good for the looks but does absolutely nothing to prevent mild stupidity. As if it wasn’t obvious two centuries ago, duh.)

Also, Shadowhunters do tend to fuss for no apparent reason, which is odd in itself, because they’re supposed to be those heavenly creatures who think and plan, and strategize, and make tough decisions with full responsibility and intent. Right now though, they look more like headless chickens, running around the Institute halls, barking orders to no one in particular and exchanging nervous glances. 

Magnus feels bored and simultaneously anxious, because something is obviously up, and he has no idea what, since he’s spent this week dealing with one big crazy warlock and five little sweet baby warlocks.

(She created a farm to increase warlock popularity. That didn’t sit right with Magnus or the others. It got messy. She got killed. Magnus got a big hole in his favorite blue silk shirt for his trouble. 

It happens.)

And then Isabelle opens a door to one of faceless rooms, and the first thing Magnus sees is Alec lying on a made bed, his eyes closed and his (uncharacteristically pale) skin covered in tiny beads of sweat. 

“Valentine has Jace,” says Clary hastily, hugging herself and immediately looking even smaller than usual. “We got my mum back, but Valentine tracked us. She is safe, but he has taken Jace and—”

“Alec tried to find him,” Isabelle interrupts Clary’s mumbling, a deep frown on her face. “We found an advanced tracking rune and he tried to use it. Apparently, Valentine could predict it and did something— now, Alec doesn’t wake up.”

“You _ stupid angels. _ ” is the first thing Magnus is able to say after a rather long pause, which is filled with sounds of people running and shouting muffled nonsense. “Has no one ever told _ not _ to play with things you know _ nothing _ about?”

“And there is a rift right in the middle of Manhattan spitting out demons as we speak,” continues Isabelle, her voice now careful. “We’ve called in a few favors from warlocks, so we’ll be able to close it soon.”

“But not me.” Magnus can’t take his eyes off of Alec, whose lips tremble as if he is trying to say something. It looks unexpectedly heartbreaking.

“We need you here,” sighs Isabelle and puts her hand on Magnus’ arm, gently forcing him to turn around to face her. “Magnus, please. I’ll do _ anything _ — the Institute will do _ anything_. Pay anything. Diamonds, rubies, old books, gold. Whatever you ask for, just— My brother. You _ have _ to help him.” 

And that does the trick.

(_ Him _ , Magnus wants to say. _ I’ll take him as payment _ , because obviously, they can’t keep Alec safe long enough for the boy to grow a beard or get first wrinkles. He is eighteen and he’s faced death _ at least _ twice, so no, _ uh huh _ , the New York Institute is not the place for Alexander Lightwood. And since Magnus has had to fight for his soul _ twice _ in less than a decade, they should just place the boy under his care and be done with it already.

It is a ridiculous train of thought.

Magnus still keeps it, even if just for a few moments.)

And then Clary and Isabelle leave, locking the door behind them, and Magnus is almost deafened by the sudden silence. It takes him a full minute to get used to it after the mess that is now securely hidden behind the door. And when he does, Magnus hears it – Alec’s ragged breath and tiny whines escaping his chapped lips.

Magnus comes closer, lifts his hands, and his blue magic rolls through Alec, from head to toe. Searching, healing, soothing. 

Alec’s body is fine but his soul is frayed and blurred. Magnus deducts that this _ damn nephilim _ must’ve tried to use one of the tracking rituals that are more suitable for _ parabatai _than regular nephilims. It works sometimes with just close souls, but in this case it didn’t. So now a small part of Alec’s soul is wandering somewhere searching for another soul it could never have found.

“Now that just wouldn’t do,” grumbles Magnus after a short outburst that breaks a mirror on the wall and a silly red and black cup on Alec’s bedside table.

He twirls his hand, creating a portal to his loft right in the middle of the Institute. 

(It’s _ his _ wards that guard the place, so it’s more like him previously portaling to the main entrance is a courtesy than him portaling right from Alec’s room is a breach of defence.)

Magnus steps through the golden void with no hesitation, Alec’s body weightless in a soft cocoon of his magic. 

The loft is dimly lit and stuffed with bits and pieces of Magnus’ lonely years (decades, centuries), but Alec looks suddenly in place on his upholstered in silk divan. 

That shouldn’t steal Magnus’ breath away.

It does.

It really, _ really _ shouldn’t.

* * *

**_xxi_**.

Of course, there comes a day (late June, lovely weather, a bit too much sun though) when Magnus enters the Institute without being summoned. There is no Alec to save, no meeting to attend and no crisis to overcome.

(No, that’s not exactly right, because there is _ always _ a crisis to overcome. Valentine is still on the loose. And there is something stirring among the Downworlders making everyone jumpy and anxious. _ And _, Magnus might add, the boy responsible for putting Alec’s soul in danger is still missing, but well. Nothing immediate to weather.)

Magnus is just really, really _ bored._

It happens once or twice every decade when Magnus spends too much time being useful and not enough time being fabulous, and eventually he gets a day off, that feels somehow wrong and dull and bleak. Everything in him, including his magic, itches to do _ something _ , but that’s always the day when he doesn’t have to do _ anything _, so Magnus gets irritable and melancholy, and ends up spilling coffee everywhere and redecorating like eight times (an hour). 

So yes, that’s one of those days, and Magnus is stuck in his loft, bored to the tips of his fingers, but this time he actually has a place to go and, well, _ annoy _ someone. It always makes him feel a little better, even if just for a few minutes.

Magnus dresses up in his favorite silk burgundy shirt, puts on his make up, does his hair (yes, again) and steps through the portal right to the Op room of the New York Institute. 

(He does come to irritate, so that’s a good place to start.)

The first one to greet him is Isabelle, and it seems like the kind of tradition Magnus definitely doesn’t need in his life but has it anyway. Isabelle looks gorgeous and (for once) without tears in her eyes or worry on her face. Instead she looks happy – to see him, to be here, to twirl her hand so her bracelet can shift and sneak up her arm a little. She smiles at Magnus, flips her hair and hugs him, short yet firm, as if to say hello.

(And that’s how Magnus knows for sure that there is something wrong with this girl, because Shadowhunters don’t _ smile _ , don’t look _ happy _ and definitely, _ definitely _ don’t just go around _ hugging _ anyone, especially not _ warlocks_.

It’s a shame, really, because Isabelle, _ Izzy _, does seem like someone Magnus could’ve gotten along with. She is smart and funny, and so easy to be around. And in another life Magnus would’ve taken her shopping to Paris and to meet Madonna and to gossip over coffee in one of his favorite cafe in Rome. 

In the same life, where Alec wasn’t a Shadowhunter, so Magnus could’ve asked him out and then move in with him and adopt a dosen blue warlock children.

In the same life, where Magnus’ heart wasn’t broken beyond repair.

In the same life, where mortals can love _ forever_.

What a lovely life that would’ve been. What a shame it could never come true.)

“I’ve said it a thousand times already, but I’ll never tire of saying it.” Isabelle smiles, letting go of Magnus’ shoulders, something akin of affection glinting in her eyes. “_ Thank you_. For saving my brother.”

“Well, the Institute did pay handsomely for me doing so,” shrugs Magnus, the smile heavy on his lips. “You know, rubies, diamonds, a few old books in ancient greek...” 

“Of course,” nods Isabelle, but this weird emotion in her eyes turns into something wicked. “Alec is irreplaceable, how could we not?”

Magnus can’t quite place it, but there is something wrong with the way she says it.

(There is something wrong with _ her _, that much is established, but still, Magnus is caught off guard by the traces of amusement in her voice.)

“Did you come to see Alec?” asks Isabelle after a short pause, realizing, probably, that Magnus isn’t going to say anything. “I didn’t know we were in need of your help.”

“I didn’t. You’re not. I hope.” Magnus frowns for a second and curses himself silently. It doesn’t sound like him, those chopped sentences. “I was just bored.”

“Bored?” Isabelle’s brows shoot up and then she does something funny with her face, her expression telling Magnus that he’s just dug his own grave. “So, you could’ve gone literally _ anywhere _ in the world to break the boredom— And I mean, London, Auckland, Machu Picchu— You chose the New York Institute?”

Well, when she puts it that way—

“_ Interesting _,” breathes out Isabelle, the wickedest grin Magnus has seen this decade forming on her lips.

(Yes, in another life, they would’ve been best friends, no doubt.)

“On second thought, I do need to speak to Alexander.” Magnus straightens his back, trying to sound businesslike and failing miserably. “He has to sign this thing for me— You know, concerning his recovery. Very important— warlock— _ thing_.”

“Sure.” Isabelle actually _ winkes _ at him making Magnus _ almost _ blush (and for no reason, because this whole conversation is ridiculous). “He’ll be here in a moment. The scheduled briefing is about to start.”

“Oh, I should go then.” Magnus takes a step back to the safety on a dim hall. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of spying when I wasn’t actually doing so. Bad for my reputation.”

“Oh no, you should _ stay_.” Isabelle has the audacity to actually grab his arm and yank him closer. “You wouldn’t want to miss it!”

Magnus is about to protest and (maybe) do something stupid to get his freedom back, but at that exact moment the murmur, going about the Op room, seizes, and Alec appears on a platform, his shoulders perfectly straight and his hands clasped behind his back.

Magnus’ heart stutters. (Again.)

And than Alec starts talking, his voice neutral and his face firm, and Magnus realises abruptly – this is _ it_. He is done, gone, in too deep and lost forever. And yes, of course, there is no way back.

(Alec is saying something about patrol schedules and the importance of cleaning the table after having breakfast in the mess hall, but the meaning of his words barely registers in Magnus’ mind. Because suddenly he sees not just _ a Lightwood boy _, but the Head of the Institute. 

The way Alec looks at everyone around him, the way he speaks, the way his voice resonates off the walls – it’s low and steady, so powerful and yet so calm. 

The way Alec moves and tilts his head, his gaze unfathomable and captivating.

All that, those little things combined with the new role Magnus hasn’t seen Alec playing before, put every puzzle piece in its place. And suddenly everything that’s been going on – every stolen breath, every involuntary smile, every stutter, every dirty thought – it all makes sense. 

And Magnus _ knows_.

It’s so sudden that Magnus almost drops his glamour, as if to see better – is it really the way it looks?

It is.)

“I’m glad you could join us.” Alec’s voice is suddenly so close, that Magnus startles, his wide eyes transfixed on Alec, who, apparently, has finished his glorious speech and came to— what, exactly?

“Yes, now Magnus knows how untidy most Shadowhunters are,” smirks Isabelle, moving to Alec’s side and taking him by the arm.

“Discipline is important, Izzy, you know that,” scowls Alec, but Magnus has spent enough time around him to notice tiny traces of laughter in the corners of his eyes.

“Of course, Alec, discipline is everything to Shadowhunters.” Isabelle nods sternly and then suddenly raises to the tips of her toes and gives a smacking kiss on Alec’s cheek.

“Izzy!” cries out Alec, obviously not sure whether to be angry or amused, his hand whips up to his face to wipe off the bloody red lip print from his skin.

Isabelle, seeing his reaction, giggles loudly and the next moment disappears in a blur. Smart move.

“I think there is something wrong with your sister,” says Magnus, when he is finally sure he'd be able to contain any tittering. 

“She can be— _ scandalous _ sometimes, but she means well,” shrugs Alec, his voice suddenly soft. It takes Magnus a moment to gather his thoughts back in one line.

“No, I mean, nephilim-wise. Isabelle is..._ abnormal_.” Magnus winces when the word leaves his mouth and he rushes to continue. “In a very charming and impressive way, of course.”

Alec’s face darkes a tone, but he doesn’t move away from Magnus, so it must mean, he isn’t exactly outraged.

“I think, I know what you mean.” Alec sighs after a pause during which Magnus feels his skin starting to itch from tension. “Those new Shadowhunters— they were born _ after _ the Uprising. They grew up in a world where hating Downworlders – at least, openly – is frowned upon. In a world where their parents are to busy saving their own asses and assets to scold children properly for being loud and open with their emotions.” Alec chuckles but it sounds strangled, and Magnus takes an involuntary step closer. “The Uprising changed things for nephilims. It ruined families, destroyed reputations. It shook the Clave to the core. Things have been different since then. No wonder that their children are different too.”

“But Alexander, they’re not _ new _ Shadowhunters, they’re _ your _ Shadowhunters. Your generation.” Magnus stands so close now that he can feel the heat radiating from Alec’s skin through layers of clothing. It seems somehow important to clear this thing out. “And you’re different, of course. You care about Downworlders, their lives mean something to you. You are all about justice and trust. I admire you for it.” Alec looks up at Magnus’ words, and Magnus is definitely lost. “But I don’t see you running around hugging warlocks and laughing at stupid things your brother always says.”

Magnus chuckles, going for flirtatious, because he suddenly needs to break the tension, to stop this odd conversation, to see Alec smile and forget about everything else. Really, does it matter why little nephilims are acting weird?

(It does.)

“Well, I’m eight years older than Izzy. Our parents did have time to drill manners into me before their world turned upside down.” Alec shakes his head, this new mix of emotions in his eyes.

Magnus opens his mouth but unexpectedly doesn’t know what to say to this.

(And wait, the math doesn’t add up, does it?)

(It doesn’t.)

* * *

** _xxii. _ **

The fact is, Magnus sleeps through another Uprising – or the barely there imitation of it. Magnus is too hungover to care – he’s spent the last month trying to drown his new knowledge in every liquid substance possible (spoilers: it didn’t work). So he is too out of it to participate in any form of physical activity, let alone fighting an army of newly made Shadowhunters with mundane blood running through their veins.

Not that anyone really needs him to.

(Alec is more than capable to deal with, apparently, everything, and now every Downworlder in the city is singing praise to the young Head of the Institute. 

Magnus doesn’t mind not witnessing his moment of glory.

He _ doesn’t_.)

And then suddenly the war is over, Valentine is killed (they say, by Clary, but what do they know?) and things go back to normal.

(As normal as things can be with Shadowhunters suddenly _ caring _ about Downworlders, the Cabinet meetings being scheduled weekly and the Clave staying quiet about all of it.)

(Magnus misses five meetings too busy spring cleaning his house in London and dealing with three very teenaged and very stupid warlocks from New Mexico. No big deal.)

And then one day someone is _ knocking _ at his door, and Magnus rushes to open it without a second thought.

The nephilim standing at his threshold is not the one he’s been expecting.

(Or any of the ones he would’ve thought to come to him. Like, _ ever_.)

“Jace.” Magnus cocks his head and leans on the doorpost. It’s deja vu...ish. (Lilith knows, he’s tired of nephilims.) “I’d say it was a nice surprise, but it would be only half true.”

“Likewise,” mutters Jace, but there is no real spark behind his words. He looks tired, worn out and frayed at the edges, and Magnus doesn’t want to think that he liked the insolent version of Jace better. “I _ am _ surprised to see you alive and well. I mean, with you missing meetings and dodging our calls… Some of us thought you were dead.”

“Yet only you came to check,” snorts Magus, it’s not a pretty sound. 

“Which of my siblings would you prefer in my stead, Alec or Izzy?” smirks Jace, and yes, here it is, a glint of that annoying boy. 

“You’re a Wayland.” Magnus chooses to say, doing his best to ignore the actual question. He really isn’t in the mood.

“Yes, but Alec has never discriminated between me and Izzy when we were growing up,” shrugs Jace, little traces of fondness in his mismatched eyes. “He made us equally miserable with his obsession over discipline and order. Best years of my life.”

“Lovely.” Magnus deadpans and folds his arms at his chest, sighing. “Why are you here, Jace?”

“I—,” Jace falters, takes a deep breathe, starts again. “When I was— _ staying _ with Valentine I was— Well, things have happened. And it triggered something in my brain. So now I’m having...episodes. Nightmares. Visions. I don't’ know, _ something _!” he waves his hands, frustrated, and Magnus barely has time to move to avoid being smacked at the shoulder. “Sorry. I’m just— sorry. Alec said, you could help.”

“I can.” Magnus nods slowly and tries not to imagine what exactly _ staying with Valentine _ entailed for Jace. “For the right prise.”

“Name it.” Jace doesn’t miss a beat.

“Of course. But first tell me, why hasn’t Alexander come with you this time?” Magnus hates himself the moment the words leave his mouth.

“This time?” frowns Jace, but Magnus just rolls his eyes, and he lets it go, concentrating on the actual question. Jace shrugs again, but now when he speaks, there is a metal undertone in his voice. “Well, I should’ve guessed that it was Alec. Men don’t hide from Izzy, even her exes.” He chuckles, but it sounds distracted. “And to answer you question, Alec isn’t as thick headed as people believe him to be. He is good at reading people and understanding hints.”

“Very well then,” mutters Magnus after a long pause, when it’s clear that Jace isn’t planning on saying anything else. “Do come in. I believe we have a spell to cast.”

“You hasn’t named your price.” Jace doesn’t move, when Magnus steps aside to let him in, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

“Ah, it’s a small one.” Magnus bats the eyelashes and smiles flirtatiously, though judging by the way Jace’s face hardens, he doesn’t look as sweet as he was aiming to. “I want you lot to leave me alone. I have a life, you know, outside of your _ nephilim _ business.” It’s been awhile since Magns spat this word as an insult but it comes easy to him. “I want you to quit running to me with your little problems and brilliant ideas. I want you to stay as far away from me as possible. And stop _ knocking _ on my door! It damages the lacquer.” Magnus’ breath hitches by the end of his speech, but he doesn’t really care at the moment.

(Magnus is furious, something that he hadn't felt for a while. His glamour wavers and his magic licks the tips of his fingers, roaring to fly free.

He can’t explain what got him so worked up.

Even for all the riches in the world.)

Magnus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Another one. And another. When he is sure that his glamour won’t fall and his hands has stopped trembling, he opens his eyes and finally looks at Jace.

It takes him by surprise, how blank Jace’s face is. His shoulders are straight as an arrow, his hands clasped behind his back. Jace’s mismatches eyes are unfathomable and Magnus suddenly feels the weight of his gaze on his skin. 

Jace is not a damaged boy anymore, oh no. Before Magnus stands a nephilim, a _ Shadowhunter _, just like they paint them on stained glass and in baby warlocks scary books. 

(And all of a sudden Magnus sees it, the familial resemblance. Jace looks so much like Alec, that despite his blond hair and unusual eyes, nobody would ever doubt them to be siblings.

Magnus hates it for so many reasons.)

“Consider it done.” Jace nods abruptly when it’s clear that Magnus is done talking. His voice is as even as it’s colorless. 

It sounds wrong.

Magnus motions for him to come inside and doesn’t regret anything.

He _ doesn't_.

* * *

_ **xxiii**. _

Magnus doesn't see Alec for another eight years.

(For once, Magnus has decided to do something rational. Something grown up. Something _ for his own good_.

Who could've thought that it will blow up right in his face.)

* * *

_ **xxiv**. _

It’s embarrassing, really, the reason Magnus brakes the status quo. 

It’s one thing to be a drama queen, establish rules and throw tantrums (not that Magnus is _ ever _ throwing tantrums), and then have _ the other side _ come asking for your help. But when you have to be the one doing the asking… 

Well, Magnus isn’t a fan.

(He’s done his best not to _ think _ during those years. Not to _ imagine_. But they’ve been with Magnus nonetheless, these borderline obsessive thoughts. What’s _ he _ like now? How much has he changed? Does he have a wife? Kids, maybe? Nephews or nieces? Gray hair? Shadowhunters tend to turn gray rather young. 

They also tend to die young, but that’s something Magnus isn’t worried about – the whole world would’ve know if something had happened to _ the greatest Institute leader of the century. _

Luke’s words, not Magnus’.)

But right now Magnus doesn’t really have a choice – he has to swallow his pride and come begging. 

(Magnus doesn’t _ do _ begging, but well. Under the right circumstances.) 

So Magnus does just that – puts on his most fashionable armor, highlights his hair red and steps through the portal to the narrow hall right next to the Alec’s office.

(He did entertain the idea of playing modest and going to the main entrance, but Magnus is quite frankly tired of that cemetary and, well, if you ask permission to enter, you might get rejected. There is that.)

The Institute is quiet and cold as usual. The hall is bathing in a dim light, gray and blue with tiny golden rays. The source of this lighting is hard to determine, but Magnus is immediately thinking of predawn mizzle and stone carved crying statues. 

It’s disturbing.

Magnus takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and comes to stand before a heavy wooden door, his raised hand hovering over the smooth dark surface. 

(Who would’ve thought that a simple act of _ knocking _ takes so much mental preparation and something akin to actual courage?)

Magnus holds his breath, moves his hand and—

He can’t do it, can he?

He can’t.

(Because, well, the moment Alec answers, the moment he opens that door – Magnus heart will be broken beyond repair. Magnus will start thinking about those damn _ what ifs _ and _ might’ve been’s _, and he knows from first hand experience how much pain always follows that train of thought. 

Magnus isn’t doing it.)

And if Magnus can’t have _ the best Shadowhunter blah blah blah _on his case, he is having the second best. Or the third – whatever Clary is these days, Magnus isn’t picky.

(Well, in that particular situation.)

So he rushes through the Institute (in the most relaxed and dignified way possible), not forgetting to act as if it’s the most natural thing for a warlock to stroll through the nephilim territory on an early Friday morning.

Surprisingly, it works, and nobody pays Magnus any mind, and one girl even helps him to locate Clary, blushing when he winks at her playfully, thanking her for her time. 

Clary is at the courtyard (and huray, the Institute isn’t just surrounded by a cemetery, it has a cemetery of its own right on its territory, how lovely!) doing something complicated, barefoot and with a stuff in her hands. Magnus pauses at the archway, mesmerised by her leisurely yet precise movements. Clary’s runes shine gold, all of them at once, it’s truly captivating to look at. Her hair is tied in a ponytail, a few loose strands framing her pale face. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is calm and deep. 

Clary is beautiful in her competence, and Magnus can’t help but smile a little at how different she is from that scared little girl that tried to threaten him into helping her all those years ago.

He takes an involuntary step forward, and Clary opens her eyes, her demeanor immediately changing from relaxed to agitated, her stance defensive and her gaze piercing.

“Magnus?” Clary frowns with confusion, lowering her stuff but her shoulders stay tight. “What are you doing here?”

“Lovely to see you too, Biscuit!” Magnus is surprised to find that his smile is still genuine, despite a lump of unexpected anxiety forming in his solar plexus. “It’s actually a long story—”

“You can’t be here, it’s against the rules.” Clary purses her lips and comes closer, grabbing Magnus by the arm and dragging him to the shadow of the nearest statue. 

“Aw, my Biscuit is all grown up, caring about the rules!” coos Magnus, though it sounds forced to his own ears.

(Damn it, he’s losing his touch.)

“They’re there for a reason.” Clary lets go of his him and puts her free hand on her hip, still frowning. “Why did you come?”

“I need your help with something,” shrugs Magnus, feeling suddenly deeply uncomfortable under her heavy gaze.

“And you couldn’t have gone through proper channels because…?” She raises her brow at him expectedly. And now it’s Magnus turn to frown in confusion.

“What proper channels?” His mind is positively blank.

“Ragnor Fell? Your delegate in the Cabinet of seven years? The one that signed the protocol along with Raphael, Maia and Meliorn?” Clary now looks annoyed and it makes Magnus somehow nervous. Just like this ridiculous conversation. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What protocol?” At that Clary rolls her eyes in such familiar gesture, it makes Magnus’ breath hitch.

“The protocol for how to act when there is an non-urgent problem a Downworlder needs a Shadowhunter help with. The protocol that’s been set in place five years ago?” Clary asks and growls loudly seeing no traces of understanding on Magnus’ face. “For Raziel’s sake, Magnus! You’re the High Warlock of Brooklyn, don’t you like read your mail?”

“I’ve been busy,” mutters Magnus, averting his gaze.

It’s getting out of hand.

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” huffs Clary. “Raphael is such a gossip queen when he gets used to you, I’d never guessed.”

“He learnt from the best,” chuckles Magnus and for the first time sees tiny glints of amusement in Clary’s eyes. “But well, I’m already here so there is no need for your fancy protocol.”

“Is your business urgent?” Clary’s face hardens again, and she looks at Magnus with renewed sternness. “Because if it’s not—”

“It is. Very urgent. Can’t wait another minute,” hurries to interrupt Magnus, adding a good amount of worry in his voice to sound more convincing. Though, judging by the expression on Clary’s face it’s still not good enough.

“Okay, but it doesn’t give you the right to lurk in the Institutes halls all by yourself. It’s still a breach of the Cabinet agreement.” She sighs, looking suddenly tired and somehow older then Magnus expected. 

“Then we can lurk together, Biscuit, I don’t mind. You’ve always been a delightful company.” Magnus offers her a hand, and after a long pause Clary takes it. There is a tiny smile hiding at the corners of her mouth.

“And you’ve always been a smooth liar,” counters Clary, but there is no bite behind her words. “I thought you wanted us to stay away from you.”

“True,” nods Magnus but then smirks payfully. “But it doesn’t mean _ I _ have to stay away from you too.”

“You’re so complicated sometimes,” sighs Clary with mock whine and it reaps a real laughter from Magnus throat.

“Oh, you have no idea, darling!” It sounds bitter instead of flirtatious.

He really is losing his touch.

Damn it.

* * *

_ **xxv.**_

Of course Clary agrees to help, because nobody wants a Hellhound running around Manhattan breathing fire and peeing lava on every hydrant it sees.

(Magnus was very, _ very _ drunk when he summoned that thing, but being suddenly lonely is a good enough reason to call for your childhood playmate, no matter what Catarina has to say about it. Also, these seelies now own him eight _ no questions asked _ favores, so it was totally worth it.

Not that Magnus would ever mention any of this to Clary. He is not an idiot.

Most of the times.)

And the mission even goes rather smoothly – they track the thing, trap it the most beautifully drawn pentagram (Clary is still good with chalks, even if she barely has time to use them for anything but work these days) and open the portal to Edom, where the Helldoggie came from. 

But then, right when Magnus raises his hand to move snarling Fluffy to the portal – troubles happen. 

(He really should’ve just forgotten about the Hellhound and let Shadowhunters deal with it once they’ve gotten the wind of the situation. All innocent lives be damned.)

“Well, well, well,” says a familiar and therefore annoying voice. “Isn’t it Magnus Bane. What an unexpected surprise!”

Magnus winces and curses loudly, because yes, Lorenzo Ray is always an unexpected surprise.

(Every time Magnus doesn’t hear about mister Ray for a while, he hopes that Lorenzo had been hit by a bus or poisoned by some unsatisfied customers or, say, thrown in Hudson River. And every time he sees the guy again, he is thoroughly disappointed.)

“I’m kind of in the middle of something, Lorenzo,” growls Magnus, his eyes locked on the straggling Hellhound, Clary standing by his side with a drawn seraph blade glowing in soft noon light. 

“Oh, I can see that!” nods Lorenzo with mock empathy and comes closer to the Hellhound, his expression a mix of curiosity and disgust. “It is a big one, I must say.”

“Yes, lovely thing, big and strong. Can you back off now?” mutters Magnus, his concentration slipping with every step Lorenzo takes. 

(It’s not just Lorenzo himself, it’s his magic glowing yellow in his veins, that Magnus, being the High Warlock, can sense ten feet away. It’s nasty and unfriendly, and smells of overripe apples, and Magnus can’t help but notice it which doesn’t help with his concentration at all.)

“Why are you sending it to Edom? Don’t we have to investigate where it came from first? These _ are _ the new rules,” asks Lorenzo, and his concern sounds plane fake. 

“Look, I have a Shadowhunter representative standing right next to me.” Clary waves her hand in greeting though her eyes are still trained on the Hellhound. “We’ve investigated everything and now we’re sending it back home. Case closed.” 

“But how can you be sure there won’t be more of these coming to New York anytime soon?” 

“Because there won’t be!” bursts out Magnus, his hands trembling, meanwhile the damn Hellhound has barely moved an inch in the direction of the portal. “Really, Lorenzo, just go away. Why are you bothering us? I’m the High Warlock of Brooklyn, it’s my business, not yours.”

“Consider me a concerned citizen,” shrugs Lorenzo and circles back to Magnus, hands clasped at his front and a very unconvincing worry on his face. “And I can clearly see that you need a hand here.”

Before Magnus can do anything, Lorenzo moves forward, his magic flying free in the direction of the Hellhound. Two glowing rays – blue and yellow – come into contact and yes, that is precisely the moment everything goes to Hell. Figuratively, of course, because the only thing that was _ actually _ supposed to get back to Hell breaks loose and with a thunderous roar tears off down the street.

And as if that wasn't enough, another _ five _ Hellhounds emerge from the portal and dart after the first one with a rather surprising speed and sense of navigation. 

Magnus stands up from the ground, where he ended up because of the shockwave after his and Lorenzo’s magics collapsed, and looks around, adjusting his raffled clothes absently. Lorenzo is lying on the pavement out cold and Clary is standing in the middle of the street, gazing after swiftly diminishing figures of Hellhounds. 

Magnus comes to stand next to her, feeling somewhat sheepish and definitely embarrassed.

(Well, at least now she knows why he doesn’t work with people he doesn’t like.)

“Damn it,” sighs Clary in such familiar manner that Magnus’ still pounding heart misses a bit. “Do you know what he is going to say?”

“Who?” frowns Magnus, moving his hands around so his ruined frock coat would mend itself back together..

“Alec, of course, who else.” Clary sighs again and then does something funny with her face, frowning her brows to the extreme and twisting her lips downwards. Her voice, when she speaks, a few tones lower. “_ That is exactly why we have rules, Clary. The protocol is there for a reason which isn’t for you to have something to break when you’re feeling sentimental_.”

“That is...awfully specific.” Magnus raises a brow, looking at Clary with a slight smirk on his lips.

“I don’t sound like that,” says a voice behind them, making Magnus literally jump on the spot. “But yes, that is exactly what I am going to say, _ Clary_.”

Magnus hastily turns around, before he can think it through, before he can remember his reasons and points. 

“Alexander.” 

An exhale.

(Remember how Magnus was worried that Alec would be different? How he’s been asking himself and sometimes the dark night sky littered with stars, how much has Alec changed in those years?

He knows the answer now.

_ Not in the slightest._)

* * *

_ **xxvi**. _

It’s his eyes that gotten Magnus in so deep. Or, maybe, not just the eyes but the contrast between them and the rest of him. 

He always has a perfect posture, his face is blank, his skin a marble (except the places where it’s covered in runes, their dark lines so captivating against his paleness, it makes Magnus’ mouth water.)

His voice is always poise. Plane. Hollow. Yet there is this strength in it, the underlying current of which can send people to death and ruin cities to dust, _ no questions asked_. His lips are ever red as if just bitten. (It’s distracting in so many ways, Magnus wouldn’t even know where to start if he’d ever had to explain why it takes him a moment whenever he sees him to collect himself to pay attention.)

Where Magnus moves and flirts and twirls – he is _ calm._ He doesn’t do much, just stands there and listens or sometimes talk. He is as inanimate as a stone carved angel, yet there is something in him that makes Magnus unable to tear his gaze away.

The eyes, it has to be the eyes. 

(Or his shining personality, but that statement would make Magnus acknowledge that fact that Raziel’s brats actually do have a personality and he isn’t quite there yet.)

His eyes are hazel. This gorgeous mix of gold and green and brown. And sometimes, if one would look close enough – red. 

(Like Hellfires, Magnus would say, but the sad truth is – it’s all he’s ever known, Edom and Earth. So maybe the red isn’t from those realms but rather from Heaven forges or dinner stoves, since even Angels have to eat something.)

They burn and crash and show so many emotions, even Magnus, who considers himself a pro in matters of feelings, could never fully decipher them. 

It’s infuriating.

It’s mesmerizing.

Magnus is _ oh so lost_. There is no going back.

(_Sorry._)

* * *

_ **xxvii**. _

It always takes Magnus awhile to admit his defeat or, in this case, his confusion. But eventually, when he does so, he mixes himself an awful blue drink with a golden umbrella, orange speckles and way too much vodka, and calls the only person whom he trusts enough to be his confidante.

“Raphael!” greets Magnus, raising from his yellow sofa to hug the vampire, who looks exactly like a person who really doesn’t want to be where he is right now. “It’s been so long!”

“Well, if you’d cared to show your face at Cabinet meetings once in a while, it could’ve been shorter,” grumbles Raphael, but obediently returns Magnus’ hug, without even a pout on his ashen face.

(It takes all Magnus’ strength not to leap into a mother hen mode because Raphael holds him a bit _ too tight _ and a bit _ too long _, but he thinks better of it. Not now. )

“I’ve been busy.” Magnus rolls his eyes, letting Raphael go, and collapses back on the sofa with as much grace as he can manage after the crazy day he’s had.

(A crazy month. A year. A crazy life.)

“So I’ve heard,” smirks Raphael and lowers himself into a plush blue armchair Magnus has bought just last month. “And I’ve also heard about the Hellhound. How did it go?”

Magnus sighs and snaps his fingers, a decanter with fresh blood appearing on the coffee table with a quiet _ clink_. Raphael bows his head lightly and pours himself a generous drink.

“Let’s say...it went.” Magnus sighs again and refills his own glass with another quick snap. “Fluffy and his even fluffier friends are back in Edom and that’s all that matters.”

“They say, you’ve spent _ a week _ tracking them down.” Raphael arches his perfectly outlined black brow. “Really, Magnus?”

“What can I say? The pack decided to go sightseeing. We’ve caught up with them in Nebraska.” Magnus shadderes, remembering the endless road and a tiny car they had to use, because the Hellhounds could sense magic and moved too randomly to use portals.

“Don’t they have their own Institute to deal with that kind of stuff?”

“In Nebraska?” Deadpans Magnus and it startles a chuckle out of Raphael.

“Good point,” he agrees, but Magnus definitely doesn’t like the smirk that appears on his face. “Or maybe, you wanted to spend more time with a certain nephilim.”

“And why would I want that?” gasps Magnus theatrically but his beautiful acting dies in vain.

“You’ve practically been drooling all over him whenever I’ve seen you two together,” shrugs Raphael and hides his cocky grin behind his glass.

“First, I don’t drool,” counters Magnus, raising his finger to emphasize his point. “Second, I can see why you’ve earned a reputation of a gossip king. And third, it was a long time ago.” He waves his dismissivly.

“If you say so,” shrugs Raphael, his agreement too smooth to be believable, but Magnus has other matters to press right now.

“Speaking of time, though.” Magnus hesitates for a moment, trying to master his best nonchalant voice – it’s been a while since he had to use one with Raphael. “How old do you think Alexander is now? Like, twenty two? Twenty four?”

“Oh.” Raphael looks puzzled, his brows raising and his mouth twisting in a pout that Magnus has seen so many times in the mirror. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Humor me.”

“_ Bueno _, he must be older than that,” drawls out Raphael thoughtfully. “He’s been the Head of the Institute— like what? Ten years now? Twelve, maybe. He can’t be in his twenties.” 

“What?” Magnus leans forward with the whole body, abandoning his relaxed sprawl. “No, that can’t be right! I mean, have you seen him? He looks eighteen at best.”

“The guy has a good skincare routine, lucky him,” smirkes Raphael and rolls his eyes. “Is that why you dragged me here, _ en serio _?”

“No, I just—” Magnus takes deep breath making himself relax and lay back on the cushions. “Something is not right and I’m curious.”

“You know, I’m terrible at telling human age. Or nephilim, for that matter.” Raphael shrugs. “But, if it’s really bugging you, we could ask Simon.”

“Your baby vampire boyfriend? How would that help?” Magnus narrows his eyes at Raphael suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling me, _ calabaza _?”

“He _ isn’t _ my boyfriend. And you _ promised _ to never use that ridiculous nickname _ ever _ again.” Raphael jumps on his feet looking murderous, yet Magnus knows all his buttons well enough by now to just laugh fondly at Raphael’s drawn out fangs and wave his hand, gesturing him to sit back down.

“I’ve always admired your ability to prioritize, darling.” 

Raphael huffs, glaring at Magnus, but resumes his place in the armchair and pours himself another drink before speaking again.

“Simon is a vampire, but he is young enough to still care about the passing of time,” mutters Raphael over his glass.

“_ Ah _, youth!” chuckles Magnus, but he feels far away from the mirth that his voice is dripping with. “Don’t worry, it will go away. But for now, yes, sure, let’s ask him. You know what they say – three is a party!”

“Sometimes I’m hit with the realization that I have no idea why I ever spend time with you,” deadpans Raphael, but reaches into his pocket to get his phone.

“Because I’m charming, of course,” shrugs Magnus and adds with a grin. “And I always give you free drinks.”

“Yeah, it must be it,” drawls out Raphael absently, his fingers flying over the lit up screen. “Simon is on his way.”

“Cheers to that!” exclaims Magnus, raising his newly filled glass. Raphael just shakes his head and downs his drink in one go.

(But there is amusement in his black eyes and it makes something warm and sweet bloom in Magnus’ solar plexus.)

“It’s about time I’ve met your boy properly,” smirks Magnus, and Raphael rolls his eyes, sighing tiredly.

“Not _ my _ boy.”

He sounds annoyed and venomous, but Magnus speaks _raphael_ well enough to hear a glint of disappointment in his voice. 

It’s about time.

(Also, it helps Magnus not to _ overthink _, so yes, Raphael, perfect timing. 

As usual.)

* * *

_ **xxviii**. _

Magnus loves reading, because it’s the most obvious yet the most entertaining way to spend eternity without losing your mind of boredom.

(Not that he gets to do it often, since he is the High Warlock, and that title comes with more headaches than it’s worth.)

But still, there is a limited amount of good movies, but good books are countless and Magnus has read them all.

So it’s no surprise that he once read a story about a boy.

Said boy was a mundane (and cute, they say, but that book came without illustrations, so he could only be as cute as Magnus’ imagination would allow) and he fell in love with a powerful warlock (who was, of course, a girl, because at the time the book was written even Downworlders were a bunch of bigoted jerks, but well, it’s history).

It was a common occurrence, but with a twist (and _ oh _, how Magnus loves those twists that aren’t exactly twists but everyone acts as if they are because it’s the polite thing to do and well, they were promised a good story so why not pretend this is it) – the warlock didn’t love the boy back.

She didn’t even know he existed – she was too busy doing her cool warlock stuff to pay attention to some mundane boy who worked as a servant in her palace. So years passed by, the warlock girl moved around the world, playing tricks, brewing potions, summoning the dead and, of course, sleeping with beautiful men. And her loyal servant has always been by her side, unnoticed and unloved, but infinitely caring.

At some point, that warlock girl has realized that her servant has spent centuries with her without getting older, yet he didn’t have a drop of demon blood in his veins nor was he a Child of the Night. She asked him how he survived this whole time, and he said simply _ by loving you, my lady_. The warlock girl was flattered but eventually decided to kill the boy – he knew her secret and she was also worried he might get tired of waiting and do something stupid. But there is a possibility that she just got tired of seeing his face for three centuries straight.

Magnus despised that book the moment he read about the murder because it was cruel and also – terribly sad. The warlock girl definitely didn’t understand how impossible it was to find someone who could love her for so long without even a spare glance from her. And Magnus did feel envious, since he’d just lost Imazu and was heartbroken and maybe a little bit drunk.

Besides, how could she not see the signs of the boy’s feelings? It was clear as day that the boy was in love with her. No one in real life could be that blind.

Right?

(_Wrong_.)

* * *

_ **xxix**. _

Magnus, despite being his glorious charming self, has never been very supportive of Raphael’s life choices. No, that sounds not quite right. Magnus does support Raphael choices when it comes to everything but his love life.

(And for a good reason because Raphael, rational sarcastic and generally clearheaded person, has always fallen for wrong girls.

First, there was Bella, a nephilim with vampire venom addiction. Raphael got hooked up on her blood and got so hung up that he claimed to be_ in love _ and promised to _ marry her _ in front of her very strict and very Shadowhunter parents. It didn’t end well for anyone.

Then there was Rosa, a mundane girl who used Raphael for his money and he was still bringing a bouquet of white roses to her grave every Sunday afternoon and sending checks to her grandchildren.

And, of course, let’s not forget Heidi. Magnus would swear he still had nightmares about her. A mundane girl whom Raphael actually _ turned into a vampire _ so they could be together forever. Magnus disapproved, loudly, but didn’t actually intervene until one day he found Raphael very naked and very burnt chained to a pole in the middle of a Brooklyn roof right after dawn. That story ended tragically for Heidi, very tragically for Raphael, who decided to go celebate from now on, and gave Magnus a fair amount of gray hair, no matter what they say about warlocks not being able to go gray.)

But this Simon kid, who was now pacing excitedly around Magnus’ living room – he was _ okay_.

“I’m so glad you invited me, Raphael! I’ve always wanted to meet a real life warlock! This is so awesome!” Simon waves his hand in a weird motion that looks like he’s stabbing the air with something pointy and simultaneously tries to kill an annoying fly high on acid. “And what a strange name _ Magnus _ is, right? But, I mean, it’s cool, don’t get me wrong. A perfect warlock name. You know, Raphael doesn’t take me anywhere so— I mean, it’s great to be here.”

Magnus can’t help laughing because Raphael is glaring at the kid who looks suddenly terrified and actually closes his mouth, making a zipping motion with his hand. 

What an animated vampire, for a change.

“You’re here because we need to ask you something, Simon. It’s business, not pleasure,” growls Raphael, rolling his eyes, but pours the kid a drink. “And stop saying things like that! It sounds like I’ve had you locked up or something.”

“Well, you practically did,” mutters Simon and uses his vampire speed to snatch a drink from Raphael’s hand before he changed his mind.

Magnus chuckles, highly amused, and salutes the kid, when he settles into an armchair on the opposite side of the room from Raphael.

“So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” slurs the kid, his voice altered and the expression on his face something from a cheap noir movie.

(Magnus likes him, instantly, which is weird, because in the last century Magnus has barely liked _ anybody _, let alone a stray mundane turned vampire who looks ridiculous in Raphael’s jacket – not that Magnus is going to comment on that.

But here he is, with that kid sipping blood from one of his finest _ Zalto Denk'Art _ universal glasses. With the whole bunch of Shadowhunters he now knows by names and hobbies. _ In love _ with _ a nephilim _ of all people. 

How is that his life?)

“How old is Alec Lightwood?” asks Rpahael, blunt as usual. Simon, of course, chokes on blood.

“I— I have no idea, why?” rasps Simon, once he cleared his throat. 

“You see, darling,” as fun as watching Raphael flirt is, Magnus does get impatient easily, so interruption is definitely in order. “Raphael and I are trying to estimate how long has Alexander been the Head of the Institute. You know, for the Downworld business.” Magnus twirls his hand absently. “But we’re both has been alive for so long that— the whole concept of _ time _ is a bit lost on us. So we were hoping you could tell us. Since, you know, you’ve been dead for just a couple of years now.” Magnus schools his features into the friendliest of smiles, but judging by the mix of uncertainty and confusion on Simon’s face, it doesn’t work the whole way.

Damn it.

“I—I’ve been..._ dead _ for exactly eight years, really.” Simon raises his hand slowly and scratches the back of his head, it’s a nervous gesture and Magnus is surprised to see one on a vampire, even on one so young. “And Alec has been the Head of the Institute long before I came into the picture. Like, twice as long or something?” the kid shrugs and clasps his both hands around the glass of blood. “I mean, he does look _ young _, if you ask me. But hey, it’s the Shadow World, right? Anything is possible!” Simon chuckles enthusiastically, but it sounds forced.

Not that Magnus actually has any mind to pay him right now.

“That’s not right,” mutters Magnus, raising to his feet, his drink forgotten on the coffee table. “Raphael, it means that Alexander hasn’t aged in sixteen years. Sixteen years!”

“You say it like it’s a long period of time,” huffs Raphael but drops the nonchalance and straightens his back meeting Magnus glare. “Okay, I agree, that’s odd for a nephilim.”

“Why is it important again?” chimes in Simon, and Magnus is finally irritated by how excited the kid looks. 

“He is _ the Head of the Institute_. If he is under the influence of some kind, it means, he is compromised.” Magnus sighs tiredly, explaining. “The relationship between the Shadowunters and the Downworlders for the first time in _ centuries _ tuned down the whole Doomsday vibe. And if Alexander isn’t himself, the Downworlders will see it as a betrayal and the whole world will _ burn_.” 

“Oh.” The kid gasps and then gulps loudly. “Yeah, not cool.”

“Exactly! But before we do anything, we need to understand what it might be.” Magnus starts pacing, his living room being the lovingly crafted space for precisely that purpose. “I mean, there are not many reasons for a nephilim to not age. Otherwise it would be a common thing by now, I’m sure.” He huffs, frowning, and wiggles his hands along with his words. “What could it be? Vampire venom? It can prolong the addict’s life though he would have to be exposed to it twenty four seven, and that might be highly difficult to do in the Institute.”

“Also, we’d notice,” nods Raphael thoughtfully. “You know how the addicts get.”

“And he couldn’t have been turned because, well, _ obviously _,” continues Magnus, spinning on his heels and moving to the other side of the room.

“Obviously.” 

“And it can’t be a spell or potion, because spells or potions able to prolong one’s lifespan don’t exist.” Magnus fidgets with his ear cuff without even noticing.

“Uh huh.” 

“_ And _ it’s not like he is secretly a warlock or a demon.” 

(And doesn’t that sound just lovely, huh?)

“Of course not.”

“Okay, then— then— Oh, I know!” Magnus collapses back on the sofa, his hand covering his face dramatically. “He is shooting up pixie dust, it’s the only explanation!”

“Right,” drawls out Raphael, sounding way too calm for Magnus’ liking. “_ Or _ there is _ another _ explanation. The less dramatic one though the most obvious.”

“Like what?” asks Magnus hesitantly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

He isn’t going to like what Raphael has in mind.

“I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it yourself,” chuckles Raphael and cocks his head to the side. “Alec Lightwood is in love with a warlock.”

_ Oh_.

“Oh.” 

(It’s so quiet in the loft, Magnus swears he can hear the deafening sound of a shuttering glass.)

* * *

_ **xxx**. _

Is that what is feels like when your world ends? Or is it an infamous beginning?

* * *

**_xxxi_**.

They meet for the upteenth time when Magnus is four hundred eighty (and it took him a while to put the numbers together) and Alec is still eighteen. Well, in appearance only – behind those hazel eyes, ever ruffled dark hair and thoughtless (black) clothing is actually a grown man. He sent people to death, he killed himself, he saw the ones he cares about get hurt or die. 

(He’s lived longer than many Shadowhunters _ normally _ do and it was bound to change him.

Or maybe not, because Alec Lightwood has always been _ different_. A man raised in a world where emotions were frowned upon, where hate was the driving force of living, and yet _ he cares_.

Not in an obvious way, of course, he’s learned his lessons. But in the only way that matters.

It’s beautiful. It’s dangerous.

Magnus didn’t stand a chance.)

“You’re late,” says Alec in that husky voice that always mazes Magnus for a moment. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve decided to fall back on my old habits,” shrugs Magnus and smiles flirtatiously, leaning forward. He can feel Alec’s body heat standing so close, and it’s the best feeling he’s had this week.

It’s an early morning sometime in September, and they yet again meet among tombstones on an old cemetery next to the Institute disguised as an abandoned church.

(Magnus’ wards work better than the ones before them, so even to his own eyes it’s just an old ruin with dark holes instead of gleaming stained-glass windows and piles of molten stones where heavy wooden doors are supposed to be.

It’s sad, for some reason.)

It took Magnus a while to accept Alec’s invitation (it’s probably business, something about this whole Shadowhunter-Downworlder Alliance), but no matter how important and urgent it seemed – Magnus just couldn’t.

Until today.

(It’s not that Magnus didn’t want to, oh no. Quite the opposite. But Magnus has long ago decided that _ stubborn _ is his middle name (sometimes it can be _ too much _ or just _ fabulous _, though that first one is the truest of them all), so if he’s chosen to play a grown up he’d be clinging to that decision no matter how inconvenient it gets.

Or maybe Magnus is just scared, that happens too.)

“What is it, Alexander?” prods Magnus, when minutes fly by and Alec doesn’t say a word, just stands there with his hand behind his back, his eyes glazed and his face paler than usual. “You know, I’m always happy to assist.”

This statement, said in the most sincere tone Magnus could master, startles an unexpected chuckle from Alec.

“Really?” He cocks his head, amusement evident in his eyes. Amusement and sadness, the ever perfect mix.

“Oh, don’t.” Magnus rolls his eyes, feeling a tiny twinge of embarrassment. He doesn’t like it. “Don’t you think it’s beneath you to hold my little outburst against me in the time of need? Besides,” he shrugs coyly, a smirk tugging on his lips. “If I were you, I’d blame it all on Jace. I mean, have you met the guy? His self-assurance would drive away a saint!”

“Yeah, Jace does have this effect on people,” nods Alec thoughtfully and then his relaxed posture changes and his face hardens. He licks his lips (and Magnus can’t help but stare at the movement), hesitating, and averts his gaze. “I really need your advice though. On a...personal matter. If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” breathes out Magnus, it sounds too soft, not the way he wants to. “Whatever you need.”

Alec nods and hesitates again, biting his lower lip while fumbling for the right words. Magnus can’t stand it, seeing white teeth pulling on tender skin, and motions hurriedly for them to take a stroll among tombstones. It helps Magus take his mind off of things.

“People start to take notice,” says Alec eventually, after at least five full minutes of quiet walking. “And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Magnus opens his mouth to ask what Alec is talking about but then it hits him right in the solar plexus.

Oh.

_ Oh._

Magnus closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. 

(Not the way he was going to approach the subject. 

Damn it.)

“Why are you asking _ me _ ?” He sounds harsher than necessary but after almost five centuries of perfecting his tones and actions Magnus is suddenly unable to control his voice. “Why aren’t you consulting your _ warlock paramour _?”

(There, he said it. 

It the most inconvenient way possible, in the wrong place and time. But he played his cards and that’s where it got him.

Magnus knows he is being unfair but for the record, _ fair _ has never been anywhere near his name.)

“I—,” Alec chokes on words, takes a deep, frustrated breath, tries again. “I _ am_.”

“Ah.”

(Magnus feels the Hanging Gardens of Babylon blooming in his chest. The Dead Sea coming to life in his veins. The song of a nightingale echoing in his ears.

It’s impossibly beautiful. Deeply overdramatic. Way too sweet.

Magnus can’t breath for the first time in centuries because _ he feels too much_. And not enough. Not nearly enough.)

“I thought you knew,” says Alec in a low voice, because apparently, he’s been quiet for too long now. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, Magnus.”

(It’s Magnus’ cue to make a decision, because really, it all comes back to it – is he ready to love and burn for it again? Is he ready to give his heart to a _ mortal _ , a _ nephilim _ who is incapable, like all of them, to love _ forever _? 

Is he ready to care and get hurt, to show affection, to tiptoe around another being, to feel anxious and scared of failure? 

Is he ready?

_ Is he _?)

In the end, it’s not a conscious choice, not something Magnus weights carefully or calculates deliberately. 

He just _ acts_.

Magnus takes a step forward, his eyes locked with Alec’s, grabs him by the lapels of his uniform black leather jacket and raises himself on tiptoes, slamming their lips together.

(Alec gasps inaudibly before letting Magnus lick into his mouth. It sends a shiver down Magnus’ spine. Alec tastes delicious, like morning clouds, fresh lemon jam and _ Beethoven's Silence. _

  
It’s everything Magnus imagined.

It’s better.

Alec moans when Magnus _ finally _ bites his lower lip, and it sounds truly _ heavenly_. Magnus can’t get enough.)

“Well, _ Alexander _ ,” says Magnus, when he finds it in himself to tear away from Alec’s hot mouth and solid body. “I think it should mean _ everything_.”

“Good,” nods Alec, his fingers tightening on Magnus’ hips when he tries to take a step back. “I have another question then.”

“Whatever you need, _ angel_.” Magnus smirks, batting his eyelashes, but Alec still looks as if he is preparing to launch into a battle.

“Would you like to— to go out sometimes? On a date.” Alec takes a shuddering breath and add hesitantly. “With me.”

“Alexander.” Magnus purrs (because he likes saying this name, it’s almost as delicious as the man himself). “I’d love nothing more.”

And then it happens.

Alec, a nephilim, a perfect soldier, _ smiles_.

(A real smile. It’s baring his teeth and crinkles tender skin around his lit up eyes. It’s so bright, almost blinding, that Magnus loses any ability to speak for a solid minute. 

And then, of course, vows to do everything in his power to keep that smile on Alec’s face forever. 

It’s a lovely challenge.)

They kiss until the sun climbs to zenith. 

It’s perfect.

Magnus never wants to stop.

* * *

**_P.S._** He never does.

Even three centuries later Alec still tastes like the best thing Magnus has ever tried. And not just metaphorically speaking.

* * *

**_Fun fact_**. Every Downworlder has their perks (and flaws). Werewolves and their mates. Vampires and their lack of bloodlust. Seelies with their mysterious _ True Love_. Warlocks and their _ happily never after_. 

But nephilims, though they can’t be considered Downworlders of any sorts, have their _ thing _ too. It’s a gift from Angels (or a curse, depending on whose side you’re on) and it suspiciously resembles seelies’ ideas of love.

The thing is – nephilims only love _ once_. And _ forever._ No matter how long they live.

(Truly, Magnus didn’t stand a chance.)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr if you ever want to talk about this story or Shadowhunters in general!  
@mysticalbarbariancreation


End file.
